


maybe we'll be more reckless (in another life, at least)

by celestique



Category: Angel Beats!
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, References to Canon, also they're dead, no smut but it gets kind of sexy?, sexual tension's a bitch, so take these ocs instead, takes place in the world of angel beats but literally none of the old characters show up, the five times they failed to tell each other something and the one time they didn’t, there's also a nonbinary hacker child, they all passed on already yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22864876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestique/pseuds/celestique
Summary: “You’re gorgeous, actually,” so matter-of-factly it may as well be an afterthought. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you.” If it did, he couldn’t even fathom how their relationship would change. They were co-leaders, partners, and nothing more. If there was anyone he’d choose to side with in a revolt against a deity, he doesn’t think there was any alternative.(She was just thinking of how it’s him, and she’s promised herself to their cause, and to him, and that’s all there is to it. It really is a simple thing. Her pride just doesn’t let herself say such. She’s not devoted, or whatever. She’s just loyal. They’re partners. Loyalty’s part of the job.)-A story of two teenagers who become the battlefront's new leaders, once the old had come and gone. They're left to pick up the pieces of whatever was left behind.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character





	maybe we'll be more reckless (in another life, at least)

**Author's Note:**

> if you're here for otonashi, yuri, kanade, hinata, naoi and the rest of the gang - go away now. you will be sorely disappointed. this fic is purely oc-based, set in the same setting as the anime and with references to the canon, but if you're here for the waifus and husbando characters who passed on, they aren't here. the characters in this story are solely my own; ocs i made back in my preteen years of ffn rp in 2012-2015. this is also a relatively old story - written around 2 years ago, i think? because i missed writing these characters and remembered their chemistry. and i thought it would be fun to revisit. i went through my old google docs and found this hanging around, then was like "hm, why not publish this?" it was completed after all. so yeah.
> 
> for context: this happens after the anime, with a new cast and a new battlefront. they also don't happen to all be japanese highschoolers. they're still highschoolers, but of different ethnicities and nationalities. the only characters you would need to know about are:
> 
> jermaine kavanaugh - current leader of the new battlefront, 17, he/him, wears an eyepatch due to an encounter with the student council that didn't permanently scar him but the memory still remains. levelheaded rich boy (Trying His Best gdi) from a shitty family, with a mother that OD-ed and an abusive father. died in a plane crash. french-british. grey eyes and black hair.
> 
> celia frankel - jermaine's right-hand lady and second of the new battlefront, 17, she/her, has a purple streak in her hair from her time alive. rebellious orphan turned bitchy party girl stuck with an awful homelife. killed herself. green eyes and black hair. british-quarter german, quarter vietnamese.
> 
> toryn millar - 15, they/them. smol blond child with oversized glasses and blotchy skin. past unknown. american.

**_i._ **

Part of him still can’t believe any of this.

When he was alive ( _ when he was alive, it’s still something he can’t quite say right _ ), he didn’t particularly believe in anything. He didn’t know if he put all his faith on some divine being, or in the idea of an empty eternity, or reincarnation and infinite living, but it certainly wasn’t  _ this. _ It wasn’t reliving a life he never had, dying again and again and yet never truly  _ dying _ . The idea of rebelling against a  _ god _ , should they exist. 

He liked to think there were plenty of different possibilities, but none of them were anything like the present. He almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, if only to convince himself it was all some fucked up dream. He didn’t die, he didn’t wake up next to a girl trying to find her way through this world, they didn’t revive an age-old organization dedicating to rebelling against a  _ fucking _ god; none of these things happened. 

“-thoughts, Jermaine?”

Celia kicks him underneath the desk, and he restrains himself from calling her out. Instead, he looks at the people in front of him - this group of supposed rebels - and the member talking to him. “Can you repeat that?”

Celia snorts at this. “Distracted, Chief? Here I thought you were all  _ business _ or whatever.”

He shoots her an impassively cool glare. “ _ Someone _ needs to balance you out, Cecy.”

“I’m the pretty one.” She swings her legs back and forth, letting them dwindle above ground. He doesn’t even care that she’s seated on his desk, a hairwidth away from him. Celia pushes herself off, then flings herself onto the couch. “I don’t need  _ anyone  _ to balance me out,” she says with the flair of a theatre actress.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he ends up saying, already finished with this conversation. On one hand, he’s  _ relieved _ that they’ve met (he didn’t trust himself to process any of this afterlife shit alone), but it’s  _ her _ and sometimes, he just wants to grab her by the shoulders and talk some actual  _ sense _ into her. The feeling’s incredibly mutual.

Celia jolts up, her hand already finding the (incredibly conveniently placed) knife on the table. “If that’s your way of telling me I’m ugly, you might as well come clean, jackass.”

Against his better judgment, Jermaine gives her a single once-over.  _ Ugly? _ No, that’s not right. There were plenty of words he’d use to describe Celia, but  _ ugly _ was definitely not one of them. He wants to tell her that if that’s how she sees herself in his eyes, she’s wrong in thousands of levels.

The other members look between the two, eyes darting back and forth, already anticipating whatever biting remark he’d give. He doesn’t humor the thought, or Celia, so he returns to the plans he was  _ supposed  _ to be analyzing.

It doesn’t stop him from saying, “You’re gorgeous, actually,” so matter-of-factly it may as well be an afterthought. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you.” If it did, he couldn’t even fathom how their relationship would change. They were co-leaders, partners, and nothing more. If there was anyone he’d choose to side with in a revolt against a deity, he doesn’t think there was any alternative. It’s only her name that comes to his mind,  _ Celia, Celia, Celia.  _ It’s like its own reprise.

“So what  _ is  _ your opinion of me then?”

He doesn’t give her an answer.

* * *

**_ii._ **

“What happened to the people before us?” Jermaine asks. He’s asked this question about a hundred times, and she wonders if he ever expects a definite answer.  _ What, why, how _ \- all of those are useless. They have no answers.

She doesn’t think they ever will, truth be told. She’s long since accepted the thought.

Celia leaps to the next pavement. “Don’t know, don’t care,” she sing-songs, because she doesn’t. These people, whoever they were, are gone. She doesn’t give a damn about their legacy or whatever. What matters is that they’re here; it’s their time to prove themselves.

He sighs at this and follows after her. When he jumps, she grabs him by the arm, pulling him to her. Gravity is its own mistress, and suddenly he’s pulling  _ her  _ to  _ him _ . His arms are wrapped around her body, her face is buried onto his chest.  _ This is warm, _ Celia can’t help but think. She’s smaller than him, and she refrains from noting how  _ perfect _ it feels to stay like this. It’s Jermaine, after all, and she doesn’t like ruining good things.

They push back at the same time, almost mechanically. Mercifully, the rest of their team had gone ahead, thank  _ god _ there were no other witnesses. “Any idea what we’ll find here, Chief?” The words come rushing out, an attempt to distract herself from him. He doesn’t comment on that, but she  _ knows _ that he notices.

He notices lots of things, and it annoys her that he does.

“Honestly? No,” he replies, just as half-hearted and quick as her question. “This place… It  _ should _ be the old Battlefront’s guild, according to that notebook.”

_ Yuri’s,  _ she remembers. They found it the day they reestablished the whole Revived Battlefront shtick. It shouldn’t amuse her that he’s kept it, because of  _ course _ he did - Jermaine’s exceedingly organized, after all - but it still does. The picture of him spending countless nights flipping through that makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s an irritating feeling.

_ Teenage hormones, _ she decides with a roll of her eyes.  _ Little fuckers. _

Before she could say anything, she’s cut off by the sound of a fired gun.  _ One shot, two shots, three.  _ She darts to Jermaine, who’s already looking at her. For a moment, there’s a brief understanding that passes between them.

_ Someone is here. _ And their comrades had already found them.

They’re running, guns drawn, weapons ready. If the Angels were already here, who knew what would happen. Obliteration was a deathwish, and Celia already had enough of those. Whoever attacked their team would  _ pay _ , that was for sure.

The gunshots continue, and soon enough, the two of them stumble into a room full of computers and corpses (or is it bodies? They’re not wholly dead, anyway), several bullets lodged in each one. The room flashes in red, a piercing  _ deafening _ warning alert echoing through the underground. 

One second, she sees a person - a child, holding two pistols - spin toward them. The next, she sees Jermaine trying to reach out to the kid, who only points their guns. There’s no time to think. She only  _ acts. _

She’s running, and she’s between them, trying for a fruitless shot. Her bullet whizzes past the child’s shoulder. Theirs finds its mark into her stomach. She screams. The world’s fading away, and the last thing she hears is Jermaine, calling her name -

_ Gunshots fucking hurt. _

When Celia wakes up, it’s in her room. Jermaine sits on the chair next to her bed, looking at the ground. Beside him is a blond teenager, small and scrawny, whose glasses are of a comical size. They remind her of the parents with their kids in those parent-teacher conferences, waiting outside offices, anticipating whatever. It almost makes her laugh.  _ Almost. _

“You’re awake,” Jermaine notes.

“You have a new friend,” she replies, turning over to get a better look at them. Jermaine’s just staring at her, and it feels like a new kind of vulnerable. It makes her think of their banter a few days ago -  _ You’re gorgeous, actually. That doesn’t change my opinion of you. _

He never did give her an answer for that. Part of her has to admit that it’s disappointing not having his answer.

“My name is Toryn,” the kid says. _ American, isn’t it?  _ She isn’t sure. She never did get around to graduating high school. “Toryn Millar. I’m sorry I shot you.”

“Celia Frankel. I’m sorry I missed.” The words are quick and sharp, almost angry, but she says it with a lightness she’s mastered when she first started out here. Jokes about dying and killing were the only things keeping her from the brink of insanity.

Jermaine’s mouth quirks up, like he’s trying to refrain from laughing. She considers this a small victory. Toryn, meanwhile, gives an awkward chuckle, followed by an “I deserved that.” 

It makes her wonder if she’s crazy, sharing a joke with a kid who straight up murdered her. But, hey, that’s the afterlife for you. If you weren’t batshit insane, you’ve probably already gotten yourself obliterated.

He nudges the kid, then asks if they could have a moment of privacy. Toryn lets out a string of words, but almost  _ immediately _ scrambles away the second they finish. Once they’re alone, he looks back at her.

“So, Toryn, huh?” She asks, trying for a bright grin.

“Yeah. Toryn. They use they/them pronouns, by the way.” Jermaine stands up, only to seat himself on the edge of her bed. She’s already anticipating what he might say. “You didn’t have to do that, you know?”

Celia rolls her eyes at that. “If I didn’t, I’d be the one left standing. We all know I’m  _ not  _ the diplomat.” Of course, he didn’t  _ have _ to know it was on pure instinct. She certainly wasn’t thinking of diplomacy and recruitment when she jumped in front of him.  _ (She was just thinking of how it’s  _ him _ , and she’s promised herself to their cause, and to him, and that’s all there is to it. It really is a simple thing. Her pride just doesn’t let herself say such. She’s not  _ devoted _ , or whatever. She’s just loyal. They’re partners. Loyalty’s part of the job.) _

He knows that she’s lying, but Jermaine doesn’t press it. It’s one of her favorite things. 

That explanation is good enough for the both of them.

* * *

**_iii._ **

This would have been a simpler story if they were several shades more foolish, reckless and stupid. It would have been easier to tell if they were gorging themselves on the sensation of young gods, divine and infinite. There was a world in their fingertips, and they could take it with a snap of their fingers.  _ Fuck _ the Angels.  _ Fuck _ the afterlife.  _ Fuck  _ obliteration.  _ Fuck _ whatever deity was watching.

As it was, however, neither of them were that impetuous. No, not even Celia. But, by  _ god, _ he wishes that they were. 

Weeks after they found Toryn, she’s dragging him by the hands to the soccer field, blindfolded. He shouldn’t trust her as much as he does, but  _ screw _ that. They argued on the way - something about him thinking the worst of her, and her being crazy as hell sometimes - but he still let her take him there.

“Just  _ trust _ me,  _ Jermy. _ ”

“Every single guess I’m making involves some sick death trap,  _ Cecy. _ ”

“Please, you wouldn’t be blindfolded for those kinds of things. I would want you to see  _ everything. _ ”

“God, that sounds disgusting.”

“God’s dead. We’re gonna kill them.”

“Then they’re not dead  _ yet. _ "

“Semantics.”

He truly is mad. But it doesn’t matter, now they’re here. Her hands are holding onto his, and he knows that it’s because she’s bringing him somewhere - but it’s  _ maddening. _ He’s acutely aware of how callused her palms are, and how they fit the shape of his hands, and how  _ warm _ it is. He wonders if she can feel it too.

After what feels like centuries, Celia lets go, and it’s like something’s gone missing. He rubs his hands, trying to remember the sensation. She’s behind him, body pressed against his back. It’s far too close for comfort. Her hands play with his blindfold, undoing it. The air between them’s thick as she unties it. 

Her chin scrapes the side of his neck, and he’s almost certain he stopped breathing. It’s only when she pulls away from him and removes the blindfold that he can exhale again. When had that even started?

“Surprise, Jermy!" She spins in front of him, her hair shining against the moonlight. It’s nighttime? He didn’t even realize. He’s just looking at  _ her _ , with her hair undone and a laugh playing along her lips. She’s wearing lipstick, and the color looks  _ damn good _ on her.

_ Stop it, Jermaine. _

“Surprise!” It’s a chorus of voices, and only then does Jermaine notice that the entire Battlefront is there. At the scoreboard of the field, there’s a banner that says  _ ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JERMAINE!’  _ complete with a poor drawing of him, eyepatch and all, with the number  _ 18. _

In the center is a crowd. Toryn’s in the middle, holding up a cake coated in chocolate and Oreos. There’s a ridiculous amount of lighted candles on it, enough for the whole thing to be considered a health hazard. Some sing, others hum and cheer. Celia grabs him by the arm and pulls him to the cake.

He tries to stop the celebration, but none of them are listening.

“I really appreciate this, guys. But…”

None.

“It’s not my birthday!” He ends up shouting, which calls everyone’s attention.

Celia shrugs. “I know, but I wanted cake,” she says this like it’s nothing particularly important. As if he hadn’t turned 18 before he died, as if birthdays mattered in the afterlife.

Before he can say anything, she shoves him to Toryn. Poor kid looks like they’re half the height of the cake. They give him an awkward wide, toothy smile, and it’s hard to remember that the person in front of him singlehandedly massacred most of the people here.

“Make a wish, Chief,” Celia says.

Begrudgingly, he does. He blows out the candles as the rest of them sing. He’s never done this before, back when he was alive. Birthdays weren’t really anything worth celebrating in his lifetime. It never bothered him, but this… This almost made him wonder at how much he missed out, exactly.

Only then does he remember that he told her, god knows how many days ago, that he never had experienced anything like this.

“Happy birthday, Jermaine,” she whispers, linking her arm through his. She’s smiling, and there’s nothing vicious or simulated about it. There’s no ulterior motive in her smile, no double meaning or hidden interest. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling back. 

In this small encapsulated space is the nothing and everything. In this moment, they’re just foolish kids celebrating a birthday. They’re not rebels against gods or angels. By god, does he wish they could stay like this.

He wants to wrap her in his arms, bury his head into her shoulder, and say  _ thank you. _ He wants to pull her into a long dance, their bodies pressed together, his forehead tipped against hers. He wants to spin her into a dazzling kiss because now they’re foolish and reckless, and he’s drunk on the feeling.

Instead, they stay like that, arms linked together, and they celebrate something that’s already done.

“What did you wish for?” Celia asks a bit later, as they’re seated on the bleachers

He smiles at her again, something fond. He’s delirious on the feeling. It would be so easy to tell her the truth, to admit whatever was there, but that wasn’t who they are. In this story, there is no time for romance, or love, or anything of that vein. Attraction, maybe, and he wonders if she feels that too. He doesn’t know if he wants to know.

“That I never have to be blindfolded by you again,” Jermaine decides to say. Celia huffs at this and leans against the seats above.

“ _ Dick _ .”

* * *

**_iv._ **

For a distraction, this is a pretty damn impressive one. Jermaine says that he found it from that notebook, something the old Battlefront used to garner the Angels’ attention. Celia doesn’t quite care about his explanation, but hey, she’s been through this scene hundreds of times.

There’s something wonderfully and innately  _ human _ about teenagers - be it NPC or human - partying to an in-house band. It’s all Jermaine’s idea, or  _ the notebook’s _ , but she still revels in it. It reminds her of her past life, with dancing until day breaks, her arms wrapped around a stranger’s shoulders, her hips swaying to whatever rhythm the drums make. They dance until there’s nothing left, until the lights go dark and the noise stops. Their skin is thick with sweat and perspiration, coated in heat and friction, but nothing matters - not even the steps they miss. The music’s too loud, too all-over the place, and so are the people. It’s havoc, but it’s  _ brilliant. _

Somewhere, far away from this chaos, other people in the Battlefront are doing far more important things. She knows she should be a part of that, (she is their second, after all), but this is hers. The band they made, a rehash of Girls Dead Monster, are on the stage, playing to their hearts’ content.

The NPCs follow their act, cheering them on as the music plays. She’s certain she sees a girl sweeping another into an extravagant kiss, dipping her so low she’d fall if her partner let go. She sees two boys holding hands, laughing without a care in the world. There’s something  _ nostalgic _ about it, but she wasn’t the kind of person who dwelled on befores. The befores were what killed her.

Sometime later, she taps an NPC boy’s shoulder and takes his hand. All she has to do is whisper a few words, trail her fingers across his hands and flash him a smile. He follows like a mystified lovesick puppy. This is her element, this is her dance. 

The music’s nothing sober, nothing sweet. Neither is this. Their bodies are too close for comfort, _ (she’s not looking for comfort anyway, so it doesn’t matter _ ), and their faces are inches apart. He’s an NPC, of course, so this was nothing. He just plays along with whatever is in his programming. Following a pretty girl to dance doesn’t break that rule.

When she snakes one hand behind his neck, bringing him closer, he gives her a disarming smile. It’s awkward, but he knows where to put his hands. They rest comfortably on her hips. All she has to do is inch a little closer -

“ _ Ahem _ .” A voice breaks the quiet moment. The NPC boy pushes away from her, as if waking up from a long spell. Celia only looks at the intruder, narrowing her eyes when her suspicions are confirmed.

Jermaine’s looking at her, his damn eyepatch staring her down. It’s a battle between the two of them, all glares and silence. She doesn’t shake and neither does he. The NPC boy makes a quick apology before running away.

The band doesn’t stop playing, but whatever nostalgic memory she’s conjured up is gone. Jermaine sighs. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of explaining herself. The understanding passes between them.

For a second, she thinks he’ll ignore this. He’s tried to ignore most things, anyway.

Instead he’s quick, one hand lashing out and grabbing her arm. Before she can say anything -  _ anything at all _ \- Jermaine’s pulled her into one corner of the cafeteria, away from everyone else. There’s nothing, no lights, no people. There’s only the echo of music and Jermaine.

“Here to scold me now, Chief?” She says each syllable carefully, layering each of it with as much venom as she can muster. He always does this, saying that she never takes anything seriously.  _ Fuck that. _ She was Celia goddamn Frankel, and she can do whatever the fuck she wants. 

She’s jumped in front of a bullet for him, planned him a party. He doesn’t get to give her any refrain. No one does.

Jermaine rests one arm on the wall, further closing the distance between them. “Is this really necessary?” He asks, and it’s not  _ condescending _ in the slightest. It’s  _ curious. _

She tilts her head higher to meet his gaze. “Absolutely not, but it’s  _ fun. _ ” She flashes him her best, most charming smile. “Though I think you don’t know the definition.” It’s a quick jab, something meant to catch him off-guard. Jermaine only shakes his head.

Part of her hates the fact his disappointment is like a lingering wound. Out of all the people here, he’s the one she’s stuck with. He’s the one she’d choose to be stuck with, if it came down to it. The gesture  _ stings. _

“Someone needs to balance you out, Cecy,” Jermaine tells her, like a tired joke. It’s an echo of a conversation they had long before, and his words then echo through her now.  _ You’re gorgeous, actually. This doesn’t change my opinion of you. _ So does his lack of an answer.

In another world, that sentence would have brought her to her knees. It would have destroyed her, in every sense of the phrase. Had she been another girl, it would have consumed her as all compliments do. Maybe she would have been head-over-heels-madly-in-love by the mysterious eyepatch boy. She isn’t, though.  _ (If theirs was some kind of love, it’s not the kind in romantic comedies. It’s not glitter and sparkles, or candies and chocolates.) _

“And you’re the person for the job?” She asks, almost light and teasing. It’s a schoolgirl kind of flirt, a romance for the uninitiated. It’s  _ banter. _ It’s so easy to forget the hint of concern in it, the flicker of worry in her voice. 

Jermaine raises a brow at this.

“No one told you to accept that role, Chief.”

“It’s just been expected from the start.”

“Have you ever considered that expectations are a fucking joke?” It’s rude, it’s vulgar. But if no one else would say it, she might as well be the torchbearer. “Sometimes, you just have to raise your middle finger at them and do whatever the fuck  _ you _ want. You don’t have to give a shit for what people assume.”

“I don’t live like you do, Celia.” He’s not even stunned.

“Maybe you should.”

For a moment, he pauses. Then he looks at her again, with that grey eye of his, and he asks her, “How, exactly?”

It might be the music, maybe the risk. It might be the fact they’re pressed together and no one else would watch. Either way, she grabs the collar of his shirt and, without question, pulls him to her gravity and into a kiss.

For a second, she thinks he’d push her back. She thinks that he’d find the sense in this, the logic of why  _ not. _ She thinks he’d tell her  _ no _ , and they’ll act as if nothing has happened. After all, isn’t that what they’re good at?

She doesn’t count on him wrapping his arms around her, enveloping her into him. She never counted on him kissing her back. But he does.  _ Oh _ , he does. She brings one arm to his neck, while her other hand holds on to his shirt. He kisses her like the world’s ending, and she holds onto him like he’s the only thing left.

It’s a lot like a fight, she considers. It’s not particularly  _ crass _ , but there’s desperation in each action. They’re matched blow for blow. He pushes her further against the wall, and Celia only complies by lifting one of her legs against his hips, urging him  _ closer _ and  _ closer,  _ until she’s not quite sure she can separate his limbs from her own.

Jermaine’s kisses aren’t anything like those she’s had before. She doesn’t account for taste - because, honestly, who does? Instead, she’s aware of how  _ precise  _ he is. There’s nothing sloppy about what they’re doing. Quite frankly, it’s like they’ve always known how to go about this. His touches are like angel feathers, light but  _ there. _

She makes a crude sound when they pull away. Before he can say anything, before he can let go of her  _ (she isn’t sure if she wants him to) _ , she pulls him  _ lower _ , pressing her lips to his again. He doesn’t stop her, and that’s good enough for her. Eventually, Jermaine’s blazer comes off, dropping to the ground. 

The music is its own kind of adrenaline, the thumping of the drums resounding. Each sound and beat from the instruments just drive  _ everything _ into its own kind of living. Celia plants a kiss on his neck, tugging on his shirt.

“Should we really do this here?” He asks. “It doesn’t seem… appropriate.”

“I think we’ve left the area of appropriacy hours ago,” she replies, before shutting him up with another, biting on his lower lip. He stops talking.

“Do you want this, though?” He ends up asking when they pull away to breathe again. It’s so  _ innocent _ .  _ He’s _ too damn innocent. It’s far too good for the likes of her. 

She tugs him closer to her, if that was even possible, if that was even an answer. But when she tries to  _ vocalize _ it, everything’s lost. If she says something, then everything changes. She’s not quite sure if she’s ready for that. When she looks at him, she sees possibility. She also sees the ending of one thing, and perhaps the beginning of another.

Mercifully, before she can say anything to him, her earpiece rings, with painful, deafening noise. It’s enough to break whatever is happening, and it’s clear that he hears it too. They break apart from each other, both of them clutching onto their earpieces.

“Guys, Operation Tornado is a success!” Toryn’s voice cheers from her ear.

Jermaine takes his blazer from the floor and swings it over his shoulder. They exchange a look, an understanding passing between them. There’s something that passes through his face, an expression she’s seen on him only once before, back when they celebrated his birthday. It’s quickly replaced by something akin to confusion.

She looks at him in a new light. He’s not  _ pretty _ , by the conventional standard. His is of a quiet kind of lovely, an elegance that few can appreciate. It makes her wonder if anyone aside from her has seen it before, be it back when he was alive or now. It’s all hidden behind his eyepatch, she realizes. How had she never noticed this before?

“So,” he starts.

“So,” she replies eloquently.

They don’t say anything more. Jermaine presses on his earpiece, and when he begins talking, it’s to Toryn. She supposes she could live with that.

It was just a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, anyway.

* * *

**_v._ **

The world goes on after that kiss (or perhaps, it was far more than that). In the end, they still go on, as if nothing’s happened. It concerns him and relieves him all the same how easy it is to forego that night; it’s the secluded corner, it’s his arms wrapped around her body, it’s the kisses he and Celia shared. It’s like a song you’ve once heard on the radio, there then gone. Life moves on, and every time you remember it, all you’re left with is a frustrating sense of wonder.

They’ve taken to being more physically distant with each other, and he’s sure the rest of the Battlefront noticed. Celia’s stopped sitting on his desk, choosing to relax on the couch alongside the other members. When they talk, they’re acutely aware of how much distance they’ve put between themselves.

He pretends that nothing’s changed, but he’s lying to himself if he actually believes it.

It happens on a day like any other. They’re over by the library, Toryn’s crouched in some corner, squeezed between shelves, typing away on their computer. He’s taken to browsing through the spines of some books, though none really catch his attention. He’s not even  _ interested _ in this, but it’s distraction enough.

Celia sits on a nearby coffee table, a can of coffee she’s smuggled in beside her. Somehow, she’s reading, her eyes glued to the pages. It’s so uncharacteristically  _ Celia _ and not. He’d never considered her a reader, but when he looks at her, he wonders if he had given her too little credit.

It’s a peaceful scene, almost domestic. If someone took a photograph and showed it to him, he would have thought they were just regular students. It’s a welcome thought, though not entirely honest.

Sometime later, he walks over to her as she takes a sip of her coffee. And, as if she already expected this, she says, “Kinda busy, Chief.”

“I didn’t take you for a reader,” he ends up admitting. 

Celia closes the book and sets it aside. She stares up at him, and he wants to smack himself for thinking about how  _ pretty _ she looks - with her green eyes and olive skin; there’s that purple strand of hair on the side of her face, loose and separate. He’s always known that she’s pretty, but now the observation is overwhelming.

“It’s not my favorite past time,” she says with a slight purr. His ears burn at the innuendo, but Celia doesn’t seem to care. She’s so used to this it makes him feel like a child again, trying to think if he would ever match up. He doesn’t know how she manages to untangle him so.

Should leaders ever feel this way about their seconds? It’s highly impractical. Isn’t this why militaries have rules on fraternization?

He motions to the coffee can. “No drinking in the library.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Please, that’s the least offensive thing I’ve done since I got my afterlife.” Celia waves her hands in the air, exaggerating. “Oh! Forgive me, not for blatantly resisting a  _ divinity _ but because I smuggled a drink into a  _ library _ ! There is no greater crime!”

“Careful there, Celia. The Angels might hear you.” It’s so hard to contain a laugh.

Celia waves her hands, all dismissive, like he just asked her what her favorite lego color is. “Let them. That way, they won’t feel like a foreboding threat.”

_ That _ earns a laugh, a cool chuckle. She looks at him the moment she hears it. 

She passes him the can. “Grab a second,” Celia says, waving it at his face, “we’ve already lived once.”

He takes it, then takes a swig. It’s bitter.

They stay like that for awhile, passing replies and the can. It’s almost as if everything’s gone to normal, like the past few days have never happened. There’s no underlying tension between them. What happened before has just been undone, and he doesn’t mind it. 

They’re both so wrapped into this dance they’ve begun, they don’t even realize the figure than trails behind her. He’s so focused at the cup, and her laugh, and their fingers - touching, but not quite - that he doesn’t see the thing stretching out to her.

_ It’s such a horrible thing when a quiet moment is ripped away from your fingers. _

He’s almost too late when the shadow grabs hold, engulfing her. Its body melds with hers, and Celia’s holding onto her hair, the can of coffee kicked aside in the struggle. For a moment, Jermaine just watches in shock as the two move, one is a struggle and the other is a force. It’s harrowing to hear her scream, and he’s almost frozen in place.

Then he grabs hold of her hand, pulls her into him as the shadow tries to follow suit. Before it could touch him, before it could touch her again, Jermaine  _ shoves,  _ knocking it back. Celia’s clutched to him, her head resting on his shoulder, and the shadow’s still moving. He has no weapons with him, only his hands and his body.

He uses no weapons. He just holds on to Celia and turns his back from the shadow, like a human shield. They’ve fought shadows before. It kills him to think of how fucking unprepared they are, and it’s all because of some stupid petty  _ fucking _ excuse of awkwardness. This is why they’re partners. This is why they don’t act first.

Before the shadow could take him, he hears gunshots. When he turns around, it is nothing more but a sliver of black, slinking into the ground. Toryn stands behind them, glasses shining against the light. They’re holding up both their pistols, smoke seeping from the barrel, and he could smell the gunfire.

“You’re welcome,” the kid says, before pocketing their guns and sitting down again. They set their laptop back on their lap, working as if nothing particularly interesting’s happened.

When he looks back to Celia, who’s still buried on his chest, she frowns. “That was reckless of you.”

“It wasn’t my plan.” He doesn’t let go.

“I don’t think a sudden shadow ambush is part of anyone’s plan.”

“Not even yours?”

Her smile is something he’d ache to see again, but he brushes those feelings aside. It almost got them obliterated, or maybe worse, after all. “You didn’t have to prioritize me like that, Chief.”

“You’re my second, and you did take a bullet for me one time. It’s only fair I return the favor.” It’s a half-truth, at most, and an excuse, at least, but it’s what he wants to force himself to believe. It’s what’s sensical, after all.

“Mhm.” It’s a wave of relief that she agrees.

In truth, they’re nothing more but fools who act like Atlas, heavy is the weight they pretend to bear, heavy is the truths they don’t think require admission.

* * *

**_vi._ **

They stay in that room long enough they may as well live there.

It’s all nothing else but plans and deciphering, research and reading. This afterlife has plenty mysteries, it’s only given they try to unlock each and every single one. The members of their Battlefront have already left, probably off to do whatever, or already dozing off in the dorms. Now, it’s only the two of them.

“How long do you think the Angels have been here?” She asks, because for once she’s curious. The question’s nagged at her long enough. Since they’ve gone here, there always were Angels. Yuri’s notebook mentions  _ an _ Angel, but nothing about more. Toryn can’t even seem to figure out if they’re programs, messengers, shadows or something else entirely.

_ Human, _ she thinks, but she doesn’t think  _ human _ applies to the President. 

“Maybe they’ve been here since people started coming here,” Jermaine considers.

“That doesn’t tell us what they are.” She sighs. They’ve spent way too long here, trying to find answers. They both may as well be grasping for straws. The mysteries of the afterlife didn’t seem to have any sort of explanation, and they’re running out of clues.

She glances over at Jermaine, who’s at his desk, scanning through his computer. They’ve stopped talking about themselves to each other. It’s put some kind of newfound wall between them, an invulnerability she doesn’t particularly enjoy. It’s professional, though, and that’s how they should be.

But it’s certainly lonely.

“Remember weeks ago, I asked you if you thought I was ugly?” She ends up asking.

Jermaine continues to type, but he answers her anyway. “Yeah. What about that time?”

“What  _ is  _ your opinion of me?”

It’s a question to cut silence, but brings it all the same. They linger there, words left unsaid. Celia looks at him, waiting for an answer.  _ (She doesn’t want to tell him she’s spent nights wondering about it, dreams and nightmares.) _

“Why did you take that bullet for me?” Jermaine asks instead, like it’s a business query.

It’s an argument all on its own. Celia marches to the back of his desk and to the side of his seat. “If we’re going to ask those kinds of questions,” she spat, “what about when you saved me from that shadow, then?” 

She isn’t hurt by the deflection, really. It’s how lackadaisical he asks her about that, like it’s absolutely nothing. Moreover, you didn’t win a fight by cowering away. She was not in the area of losing, especially since he’s seen her in far more lights than she’d allow. She was not made of tears and heartbreak, she stopped thriving on that when it killed her.

“Then let’s bring up Operation Tornado,” he says as he stands up to face her, and she can hear the weariness in his voice. The fact he brings it up even sends her into a spiral of personal frustration.  _ Of course _ they couldn’t act like it never happened.  _ Of course _ it did. “You never answered me then.”

_ Do you want this, though? _ He’d asked her.

The question burns at the back of her mind. It’s searing as he glares back.

“What about your birthday party,” she replies, stepping closer. “You were going to tell me something else that night, right?” It’s a stretch, but she knows him. She  _ knows _ that he was going to say something that night. She knows it down to her damn bones.

He’s quiet. So is she.

Let that silence swallow them whole, then. They were too proud to say anything. It’s stupid and immature, but it’s true.

Eventually, Jermaine sighs. “We’re getting nowhere with this.”

“Then let’s get somewhere with this,  _ Jermy. _ ” She puts one hand on the desk, grabbing his attention. “You tell me, honestly, whatever it was you were supposed to say those days. And I’ll do the same.” She takes his tie and pulls him toward her, so he can look at her in full. “We get the truths from each other, and all this back and forth ends.”

“And nothing changes?” He scoffs at the idea and puts one hand on the one that’s holding his tie. Jermaine tries to remove her fingers, but she’s gripping onto it like a last breath. “Celia, let’s just - “

“No.” It’s a simple word, its meanings carry enough weight. His hand is still clutching hers, and he looks at her like he’s never seen her before. She’s seething at him, because  _ damn him _ , and because  _ damn everything else _ . She hates this back and forth. She hates this deflection and this dance. She’s not some flighty teenager. “The only reason I have for all that was because it’s  _ you _ , Jermaine. It’s always been. You’re infuriating, and you’re our leader, and  _ you’re my partner _ .” She stares into his eye. “That’s a relationship I’d never want gone. But it doesn’t mean I’ll accept this constant dancing around stones.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Celia?”

It’s unbelievable that, in the end,  _ she’s _ the one who’s expected to answer. “What were you trying to tell me before, Jermaine?”

They don’t let go.

“I’m not going to admit my undying love for you,” he says pointedly.

“Who said anything about  _ that _ cliche?”

It’s enough for him, it seems. He flicks his gaze from her face, to her eyes, he looks lower. He thinks she doesn’t notice him stare, but she  _ does _ , and it’s almost enough answer. 

“You know I’d go to hell and back for you, right?” He asks.

She smiles at that. “So would I. But that isn’t an answer, now is it?” 

She likes to think that their relationship is a lot like that in chess. He’s the king, and she’s the queen. That’s how they’ve been, how they always were. The Battlefront’s comprised of bishops, knights, rooks and pawns. It’s not demeaning, it’s not supposed to be. They all have roles and parts to play.

Jermaine cups her face with his free hand, delicate, like a lover’s touch. “Is this answer enough for you?” he asks, a mere whisper. Before she could ask what he means, he brushes his lips against hers, something of a gentle kiss. It’s nothing like Operation Tornado. This one is… careful, unsure and unsteady.

What surprises her is that she lets him keep it that way. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead on hers. “My opinion of you,” Jermaine murmurs into her ear, sending chills down her neck, “is that you’re absolutely irritating to be around.”

She shoves him aside. “Ass.”

He’s laughing, and the sound is its own melody. It almost makes her forget what he just said.  _ Almost. _

“It’s true, though. You’re irritating, frustrating, absolutely insufferable. When we’re stuck in a room together, we’d probably have killed each other by the second morning.” It makes her ears red, her blood boil. “But every single moment remind me what  _ living _ should feel like.”

“I can’t believe I hate you so much I care about you.”

“Trust me, I didn’t think I’d hate you so much I’d care about you either.”

They’re both laughing now, glorious and undeterred. It’s crystal clear, an incessant ringing. They’re laughing, like nothing else matters, like the greatest comedy’s been shown. And when she looks at him again, she sees the strands of hair that fall across his eyes, covered or otherwise. The eyepatch is its own story, one she’s heard ages ago. Still, it’s striking.

Then, as if a bomb drops, or a gun starts, she pulls him into one frantic kiss. They’re clutching onto each other, as if the other would disappear if they did, and they hold on to this moment like there’s a finality that’ll come to pass. He picks her up with ease, setting her down on the desk - a space she’s been plenty comfortable sitting on before, but never like this.

It’s hard to say if she’s ever _ fantasized _ about this, because it’s Jermaine, and there’s something wholly  _ different _ about him. But when she wonders if she truly, legitimately wants this, he kisses her and the answer comes flooding in through echoes and choruses:  _ yes _ ,  _ yes, yes. _

“So, not to remind you of Operation Tornado,” this time it’s  _ she _ who does the asking, because she’s plenty certain of her answer, “but do you want this?”

“Only if you do,” is his reply, “but I also  _ very much _ do.”

Celia pulls his jacket aside and starts tugging at the buttons of his shirt. “I very much do too,  _ Jermy. _ ” It’s a tease, one she can’t help. His first response is to untie her necktie and toss it. His second is to pull her shirt down, plant a kiss on her mouth, then her jaw, then her neck, then her shoulder. Each one is its own kind of magic, and she wraps her legs around his hips, bringing him closer. 

It’s just kissing, because they don’t really trust themselves for anything more. She makes a joke about birth control in the afterlife, and he just groans at it. 

“You know everything changes after this, Cecy,” he points out a little later. For once, the nickname doesn’t grate her ears. It’s infuriatingly domestic this time, but in a good kind of way. Cute, almost.

“Don’t remind me. I don’t think I can ever look at this desk the same way.” It’d be a laugh to see the rest of the Battlefront members look at the desk like it’s nothing.

“So, maybe we should switch this to the couch?”

“Just shut up and kiss me, Chief.”

She used to say that she didn’t want anything to do with him because she didn’t want to ruin good things, but this time, she allows herself to be selfish. It’s not so bad to choose yourself sometimes, after all.

He traces the shape of her with fingers so light, she isn’t sure if she imagined it. She murmurs something into his ear, before grazing the nape of his neck with her lips. It’s swift, it’s wanting, and they both know to never keep a good thing waiting. So he kisses her again, and she lets herself be kissed. She kisses him again, and he lets her. In each one, there’s a spark of understanding and excitement, a giddiness and a relief. 

They go as far as he can almost see the lace of her bra, the strap hanging from one shoulder. They go as far until his shirt’s completely unbuttoned, and she gets a nice view of what’s underneath. But that’s as far as they’ll let themselves go, if only for today. There’ll be plenty of other days, anyway.

There’s an echo of themselves in their touches, a fleeting language only they can understand. She knows him like the palm of her hand, and he understands her in a level that’s so cosmically unfathomable. They could drown in these depths, forget how they functioned before any of this came into play, but they’re smart, and they know how to act. So she kisses him senseless today, putting the words she could never admit into each lingering touch, each scrape of skin. It’s all limbs and kisses. Today, they’ll let themselves be marginally more reckless.

_ Isn’t that how happiness should be sometimes, anyway? _


End file.
